


Neon Afterglow

by Abitofwhimsy



Series: Peter Stories [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Peter Capaldi - Fandom, The Hour, The Thick Of It
Genre: Alternate Universe, College, Daddy Kink, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Older Man/Younger Woman, Peter Capaldi owns a games arcade, Peter Capaldi's glasses, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Smut, retro arcade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 20:50:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9459935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abitofwhimsy/pseuds/Abitofwhimsy
Summary: A passionate, one-off encounter between a young college girl and the mysterious man who runs the retro games-arcade in town.





	

**Author's Note:**

> No idea – just something based on a dream I had. I don't often write smut like this, or one-offs, so consider this my first time.

The arcade owner is an older man. Tall, well over six feet, and slender – with a handsome, laughing-moon profile that she can't help but find attractive. All angry eyebrows and sharp cheek-bones. A crooked nose and thin lips. So far removed from the square chins and sloping foreheads she sees on campus. 

Dark curls at the nape of his neck compliment the rest of the gray, and often she catches herself thinking – _silver fox_. 

Sometimes he can be a little shambling, a little sarcastic, a little too serious for her tastes. Scowling at the lowlifes when they run out of quarters, shouting at the chavs when they try to kick the old Pacman machine. But most of the time he's vigorous, blue-eyed, and boyish. She likes that about him. She thinks it's refreshing, maybe even a little endearing, that someone so old can act so young and suave.  

Whenever she's in the arcade he hovers around her like a moth above a lamplight. Flaunting a fashion sense that swings somewhere between an 70s rock-star and an 80s cinema-geek. Dressing sharply, stylishly, _ridiculously_ in loud, chic business shirts. Nothing but open collars and rolled up sleeves. Exposed forearms. A long, supple throat. 

All the attention he gives her is an ego-boost, not to mention a turn-on. She revels in the lingering glances, the low voices, the risqué tones. All the subtle gestures and jokes that seem on the verge of flirtatious or inappropriate. She’s never stopped to wonder why. If it’s a joke or a game or if his interest in genuine. She knows it is. They have a lot in common. Books, video games, films, music. They both share a similar sense of humor, along with a profound respect for all things retro. And they both have a penchant for vulgarity. But more than anything, it has to do with how they act toward one another. How he makes her feel like she can tell him anything without being judged. How she makes him feel like he can be himself – his true self – around her without disapproval.  

When she's around him she feels her face grow warm and her heart flutter. And just hearing his voice is enough to make her dizzy with some unnamed longing. An aching need to be filled. 

She fees the ache again on Friday night as he stands behind her at the pinball machine, pressing softly, but noticeably, against her – bending her subtly over the rectangular slab of glass. Casually playing with her hair and asking about her day, about her classes, about the new set of freshmen boys strutting through her dorm like a flock of preening peacocks.  

Awkward as ever in his fishing – "So, do you fancy any of them or . . .?" 

She shrugs, equally nonchalant, and pretends to watch the little silver ball dart back and forth behind the glass – but really she's watching his reflection. Wispy, half silhouetted. His wide, thick-rimmed glasses drooping down his beakish nose as he gazes back at her. Thin lips parting ever so slightly. Tongue edging out now to wet them. Hunger coming into his face. 

Murmurs and snickers from the other patrons in the arcade. _Dirty old man_ , and _daddy kink_ , and _ugh disgusting_. 

She learned to ignore them long ago. The age difference doesn't bother her. If anything, it's part of the reason she's interested. 

The pinball lights flash – warm metallic hum, the pink-purple glow of neon – and she takes the opportunity to arch into him a little. Listening for the swift intake of breath, smiling when she feels the bulge in his trousers harden against her ample cheeks. 

She's done this before – teased him, toyed with him, played the game for hours and then feigned girlish innocence. Usually, he reacts with startled, awkward politeness. But not this time. But this time he reads it as an open invitation because all at once he's leaning in, pushing her up against the front of the pinball machine, reaching down to plant an arm on either side of her, his thin hands brushing the sides of her palms ever so lightly. A ghost touch. Without warning she's trapped between him and the pinball machine. And he is _so_ close now. Smelling of cinnamon and sandalwood, his body crackling with a strange, tantalizing heat that leaves her dry-mouthed and craving rough kisses. 

She shivers as the warmth of his voice – deep, gravelly – curls around her. Tickling her ear, her neck. His words are full of suggestion, and it stirs something in her. This is the boldest he's ever been, and she likes it. 

She lets him lead her away from the pinball machine, through the arcade and down to the basement where he lives, promising a game more entertaining than Tetris. After all, it's fun to figure out what pieces fit where, isn't it? An hour later he's sitting tall and lean on the center of the ragged couch, half-shadowed in the low light with his trousers around his ankles, helping her onto his lap.  

His breath is a husky whisper on the shell of her ear. "That's it, good girl, don't be afraid." Raw and hopeful. "It's going to feel good." Almost urgent. "So good, so good. Just trust me." 

She's straddling him now as he gently hikes up her skirt. Surprise comes onto his features when he sees her for the first time, and then a big, toothy smile, wide enough to crinkle his eyes. She isn't wearing anything under the skirt, and he's touched by the fact she's considered this. That she's fantasized about him enough to prepare for a real-life scenario.  

He takes a hold of her hips with his slender, delicate hands. Eyes half-closed, mouth open, face flushed – looking oddly feminine in a wanton kind of way. Patient in his instruction, he helps her raise up on her knees, positions her over him, swollen and eagerly throbbing. He tells her how much he's wanted this. How much he adores her. Slowly guides her wet heat, dripping and unashamed, down onto him with a dark-eyed groan. 

"Oh god." 

Sharp pain and then a wonderful, sliding friction. It's her first time. He realizes quickly, peppers her neck with rough kisses as he pumps tenderly into her. Murmuring a stream of breathless obscenities in that delicious brogue of his when she starts to ride him – seeking faster, harder thrusts. Pulsing inside her when she lifts all the way off him, only to slam back down again with an eager hiss. 

"Oh god, oh _god_ ," he rasps. It becomes his mantra, his prayer. Half sung and half whined into the sweat-covered crook of her neck. 

And all the time she's thinking, he wasn't lying. This game does feel good. Life-changing, world-shatteringly good. She hopes they'll play it often. 

He growls against her neck – "Oh god." And then her name. Hoarse and laced with reverence. "Oh god."

Sudden, greedy desire overtakes her. She claws at his broad back and shoulders, grinding onto him, bucking away with abandon – breasts bouncing, hair damp on her forehead. One of his hands shifts to cup her breast, gently at first and then tightly squeezing, flitting over the nipple, tweaking it and laughing when she cries out. A pleasant shock of pleasure. Stubble chin scraping and nuzzling, muffling his warm puffs of apology.  

"Sorry, but I couldn't resist." 

She tells him it's okay. She tells him to do it again. 

The distant sound of electronic beeping drifts down from the game-floor above. Mixes with the sound of panting and moaning and creamy-white skin on skin, slapping thickly in the quiet, dust-filled basement.  

He’s breathing hard now, grunting her name in time with the roll of her hips. Telling her she’s irresistible, that she feels amazing, that her body is absolutely _perfect_. At one point his lips leave her neck and he lets his head loll back on the couch. Watching her fuck him, entranced. Thumbing her bottom lip, mapping it. Parting her mouth with his thumb and slipping it in. Marveling when she starts to suck it. 

"Oh god." 

He gently bites, licks and kisses along the inside of her wrist, his eyes blazing into hers. Never looking away, his face red and contorted as he watches her use his body. Everything he's dreamed about. Everything he's lusted after now a vibrant reality. 

"Oh god." 

In time his noises grow more needy, his movements more frenzied. He adjusts himself below her, angling up – giving her sweet, hard thrusts until her breath comes out in short, digging gasps – and when he starts to feel her tense above him, he slides a long, calloused finger between them to rub. 

The arcade basement narrows to black in her peripherals. His touch is like fire, and all the time he's grunting, _begging_ in what sounds like a voice cracked with pain. "Oh god, oh god, oh _god_." 

His pace turning sporadic. His breath hitching.

He's coming undone beneath her.  

 _"Oh god!"_  

He can't hold back anymore. Neither can she. 

Her entire body tightens into a bursting, lyrical scream. She throws her head back, sees fireworks, and he comes spurting hot inside her a second later while she clamps around him. His climax heavy in his throat like a desperate sigh.  

He's old enough to be her father, her grandfather, but right now he's whimpering against her neck like a frightened child. Still pumping, even as he slowly shrinks, even as he finally pulls out of her. Hips still jerking, cock still twitching, tongue still tracing her skin – trying to make the connection last, to preserve the taste and feel of her indefinitely.  

"Oh god, oh god . . ." Longer, languid groans now as she eases off him. An edge of sleepiness in his voice.  

Beside him, sprawled on the couch, dangling one shapely leg limply over his knee, she feels boneless and content. Hair mussed and cheeks pink, breath eventually slowing. She doesn't even bother to smooth her skirt back down. All she has the energy to do is turn her head and look at him. And in that moment, as she drinks in his hairy chest, his strong, thin arms, the heavy cock resting between his legs (only seconds ago inside her) – she feels the same exciting twinge of attraction she had when she saw him all those months ago when the arcade first opened.  

 _Oh god._  

No hesitation. She crawls back on top of him and presses a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. Her first real kiss with him, and somehow it's deeper and more meaningful than all the passionate caresses and breathless compliments combined. He senses this too. Glances back at her, stunned, his spindly fingertips pressed to his mouth in disbelief. A kind of fondness lights up his face. It's overwhelming to see him so happy.  

He tells her she's beautiful, and it melts her heart. 


End file.
